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Chapter 1 - Leonid

What does one envision when they think of a Bratva man? Fuck knows. But I’m pretty positive it isn’t the sight of us five massive men—who look like we’ve got various weapons secreted about our persons and actually do—with these stupid fucking conical party hats snapped onto our heads. Bright yellow contraptions with a spray of sparkly fuchsia tinsel bursting from the tips.

We all watch the raven-haired birthday girl who runs across the lawn, her blue dress flouncing all around her, like a chariot of clouds. Concentrating on only Zinaida Yuria, this could be the beginning frame of a fairytale.

But that isn’t our world. If anything, I’d say ours is the opposite of a fairytale. Though, today, I seem to be the only one willing to admit that.

It pisses me off that I can’t just let it go. That’s what Trifon had demanded for his baby girl’s birthday party.

As he is the Pakhan, his word is law. Usually, that’s good enough for me. Yet even the Pakhan’s word can’t keep my eyes from drifting to the twenty-five armed guards dotting the perimeter of this garden Trifon and his wife, Yulia, have transformed into a wonderland for their daughter’s special day. The amount of security is double what it was last month.

It doesn’t fucking matter if they’re dressed down and tucked behind the rose hedges and ivy-wrapped trellis archways. I still see them. Because it is my job to do that: in my capacity as his secondary advisor, I act as the bridge between the Pakhan and his brigadiers. The brigadiers oversee their individual sects of soldiers.

“Uncle Leo! Uncle Leo, look!” Little Zinaida shrieks for my attention, right as she tears through the balloon arch.

Still, I can’t clock out from my job—no matter how much I wish otherwise. A problem that the brigadiers don’t seem to have. My brothers, Iosif and Miron, are having a fucking blast. I can’t claim this situation isn’t grueling on them, too. I know it is. But they can turn it off.

I applaud my niece, forcing a bright grin to my lips. “Magnificent, Zina!”

It isn’t just because my brother will chew my ass out if I ruin this for her. I’d love to revel in this fairyland Yulia has transformed the south lawn into—to enjoy the beautiful September afternoon, the lavender and gold streamers fluttering in the breeze, and the balloon arch that I know for a fact three grown men spent forty minutes assembling because I watched them do it while sipping my coffee.

As I’ve learned of late, however, what I’d love to happen is fucking inconsequential.

The universe doesn’t give a shit if I want to extricate this stick from up my ass and have as great a time as everyone around me. Trifon is content with his wife. Valentin has his arm thrown over his wife’s shoulders, undeniably flirting with her like they’re fucking teenagers. Even Miron, who’s attached to no one but the many women he’s bedding, finds it easy to have a chicken wing eating contest with our cousins.

Iosif drops onto the wrought iron bench beside me. My younger brother looks like a man who’s been chasing a toddler around for the better part of an hour, which he has, because he’d do anything for this little girl. Same as the rest of us. I glance at the silver hoop in his ear as it catches the light.

“She could be a gymnast,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

It’s a game we play sometimes, dreaming up potential lives for Zinaida, who has a choice, always, about whether this Bratva life will be for her. We’ll definitely discourage her from it, not that it’s historically done any good with any other women in our family.

“Yeah,” he grunts, bumping his shoulder into mine. “You good, man? You’re not having fun.”

“To be fair, bratan, no one has as much fun as you, ever,” I quip back. Anyone would agree with me. Iosif is reckless, impulsive, the life of every fucking party, and always has been.

“Hey, Nadya does!” Iosif argues, despite barking a laugh. “Besides, I’m a changed man and all.”

He isn’t wrong on either count.

He nods toward the golden-haired beauty in a sundress who’s mellowed his ass out. I watch him watch her bring out the three-tiered cake and I can’t deny that it’s valid. He’s still a pain in the ass, but meeting and loving Janella has transformed Iosif for the better. Into a man who helps make a three-year-old’s birthday cake.

“Fuck off,” I snort, nudging his shoulder back. I can tell he’s itching to go over to her.

It’s all the push he needs.

Iosif bails and my gaze drifts to our youngest sister, who’s currently trying to teach the birthday girl how to do a fucking backflip. She’s the real daredevil. To her side, the biggest proof of that stands: Viktor Zakharov, wearing a wedding ring to match the one on her own hand, observing her with a lovestruck grin on his stupid face. He has a scar on his cheekbone where Valentin once bashed it in.

Clocked in or not, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully process that our baby sister fell in love and got hitched to the rat bastard spare of the Zakharov Bratva.

My eyes roll away from the couple.

It’s easier to stomach the sight of the blonder, more polished, less loathsome Zakharov, currently letting my nephew—nine-month-old baby Rurik—yank on his silk tie like a leash. Anton Zakharov is a Pakhan, too. Of a gang that were once our biggest rivals. He has that look about him; distinguished, in control, built like a truck. Not a man without weakness, and it’s as pronounced as his power when he looks at our sister, Darya, like she hung the moon. With him, I’ve got no doubt that he’d set the world on fire to keep her warm. It’s what she deserves. I know that. And that’s almost enough to make it all fine.

But fuck, it still prickles, this knowledge that all this love is what’s responsible for the current state of shit. Everything is on fire. And it wouldn’t be, if we’d never agreed to forge this alliance with the Zakharovs.

It’s a vicious thought that turns my stomach.